“It’s not the time.” He paused, waiting for me to look at him again. When I finally did, he added, “But I know you, Hux. I know you wouldn’t cheat.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t.” It was the most I’d said about that night to anyone. It wasn’t just my story to tell, but Minns was making it fucking hard to want to keep my mouth shut.
“Good. That’s all I need to know.”
Coach skated over. His expression was dark, his chest still heaving in anger. “Am I going to have any trouble from you?”
“None, Coach,” I responded. I wasn’t stupid enough to have it out with a teammate on the ice.
Hewitt joined us, and Coach looked between the three of us. “Good. I’m switching out the lines. You three are skating with Novotny and Watts.”
The scrimmage went on, Wilson getting the up on Gauthier when the puck dropped. The second line were fast, and they worked together like a well-oiled machine. Their passes were tight and true. But we weren’t going to let them sink anything. Rune, our goalie, was a brick wall. He didn’t let anything past him, and while the plays were messy, sticks cracking together and skates carving up the ice, he had his eye locked on the puck.
Novotny was in the mix, using his big body to shoulder Kreutzmann out of the way. His stick met the puck, and he shot it through his legs straight at Hewitt. It was anything but elegant, but it got the job done.
Hewitt was surrounded in a split second. The gap our opponents had left was miniscule, but Hewitt snapped the puck straight through it.
“Yesss,” I hissed as the puck met my tape. High and tight, I shot it. The puck sailed straight over our backup goalie’s leg, meeting nothing but net.
The buzzer wailed. We were up by one.
The scrimmage went on. Coach pulled us off and swapped out sides. Opposing players were teammates once more.
I’d just gone over the boards when Lebedev sent Minns and Mironov back onto the ice. Asshole. Mironov was going to do something stupid again, and I didn’t want it to be my career he interrupted—or worse, ended—if he succeeded.
I didn’t have to wait long either.
But it wasn’t Mironov who came out swinging.
The moment I had the puck, Minns was on me like a fly on shit. He didn’t do anything illegal, but his plays were dirty.
I passed to Watts, and Minns tried to check him into the boards as he flew past.
But Watts spun out of his way.
He darted forward, faster than I’d seen him move in a practice before. He was on a breakaway. His elbow high, he slapped his stick down and connected with the puck.
Austin didn’t stand a chance. It went sailing straight past the gap under his outstretched arm.
The buzzer sounded.
We were up by two.
Minns skated away, joining his line again.
But Mironov wasn’t playing anymore.
He rounded on me, his stare dripping with venom. His teeth were bared like an animal on attack.
I may be a hockey player who wore a scowl more often than not, but I was a lover, not a fighter. I avoided confrontation. I didn’t dive into fights, and I fucking hated the sight of blood. For a hockey player who saw it virtually every game, it was irony at its best.
I moved, trying to get the fuck out of his way. But Rossi was too slow. We collided, and I sent him sprawling to the ice. “What the fuck, man?” he shouted.
I spun away from him.
Where the fuck was Coach? Lebedev? Sawchuck? Why wasn’t anyone stopping this bullshit?
The puck dropped, and I kept moving, skating faster than Mironov. I was more agile too. Where he had bulk on his side, I had speed. Mironov was a brawler, one of those old-school hockey players from the eighties. During every game, he spent equal amounts of time skating, fighting, and being sin binned. I did not want to throw down with him. It’d be lights out for sure. I’d seen far too many players end up on IR after a hit from him.I’d survived a hit to the boards with barely a scratch. I wouldn’t be so lucky next time.
